


Rusted Shadows

by narcissablaxk



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Lots of Death Mention, Post-War, Romione Married/Divorced, Suspense, redeemed!Draco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-08 06:41:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12249033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narcissablaxk/pseuds/narcissablaxk
Summary: A chance encounter in a graveyard forced Draco Malfoy to become Hermione Granger-Weasley's savior. Now they must figure out who is trying to kill the war heroes before he actually succeeds.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In honor of October, I'm hoping to go a little dark with this piece, so fair warning that there will be lots of blood and violence, but I do not plan on killing any of our main characters. There is a bit of humor in this first chapter, but be warned that this is still a dramatic and suspenseful story. I hope you enjoy!

The ten year anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts dawned quietly, insignificantly, the same sunrise that peeked over perilously dark clouds the day before. There was nothing in the weather that spoke to a special day; it had rained yesterday, and it would rain today. But still, Hermione Granger-Weasley watched with an air of reverence. 

She tucked her fingers into the handle of her tea cup and sighed. She always woke up early on the anniversary, as if waiting for another shoe to drop. Ever anniversary, she went to bed at the close of the day feeling emotionally exhausted and a little relieved. One day, Harry always reassured her, it wouldn’t feel like this. 

A river of lightening snaked across the sky, and Hermione gently closed the window, turning back toward her sleeping husband. Ron always handled the day differently than she and Harry did. He always chose to stay in bed, to sleep the day away, so he could, ideally, forget what happened. He would do that today too; Hermione brushed some of the red hair out of his face and studied his countenance for a moment. 

He looked peaceful right now; she hoped he’d be able to hold onto that peace when the thunder inevitably woke him. There had been very little peace in their home lately. They always fought more when the anniversary got close, but always fights borne out of nothing, fights that they regretted and forgot the next day. Last night, it had been a fight about visiting his family; she rolled her eyes thinking about it now. She had felt more keenly the absence of her own mother and father and took that out on him – he hadn’t understood her feelings and argued harder. It was a typical occurrence; the usual dysfunction that they accepted. 

She wished she could be like Ron today; she wished she had the ability to sleep and temporarily forget. Unfortunately, Hermione was not the forgetting kind. Instead, she polished off her tea and got dressed in a sensible pair of jeans and one of Ron’s old Quidditch shirts, pulling a raincoat over her clothes so she could begin her yearly trek. 

The graveyard was silent when she Apparated just outside the gates. The rain had begun to fall in earnest now, making hollow little thudding noises against the rubber of her jacket. She squinted past the fog and rain, but she could see no one. It didn’t surprise her; very few people wanted to go to a cemetery at all, much less early in the morning on the day when their loved ones passed. It would remain empty for hours – just the way she liked it. The Albus Dumbledore Memorial Cemetery was brand new, its grounds specifically built to hold the remains of the victims of the war. 

She found Fred’s grave first – the headstone was immaculately cleaned from George’s weekly visit – and dug a little wind-up toy from her beaded bag. Every year she left a Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes toy behind at his headstone, so he’d have something to laugh about. “I miss you, Fred,” she said quietly into the mist. 

Behind her, a branch snapped. Immediately, her hand was on her wand, her eyes narrowed and staring into the still faint light of early morning. Nothing behind her looked disturbed. Her instincts were unsettled; she felt eyes, a presence, but could find nothing. After a few moments, she released her wand and forced herself to relax. It was probably just another person coming to visit their loved one’s grave. Nothing to be tense about, Hermione, relax. 

She stopped by Snape’s next – it always took a lot of time to clear away the brush and dust – and she never left him anything. He wouldn’t have wanted anything from her or anyone. The thought made her smile. 

She made her rounds quickly and efficiently, deciding not to linger as the rain started falling harder. She visited Sirius’s grave, pausing to pay her respects at the graves of Colin Creevey, Cedric Diggory, Alastor Moody, and Ted Tonks. 

She was thoroughly soaked by the time she got to Tonks and Lupin’s graves, but despite shivering and the lingering unease of that cracking branch, she found she could not leave without at least talking to them. She liked to tell them about Teddy when she visited so they would feel like he was still connected to them. 

“Teddy is already talking about Hogwarts like he’s going in a few months as opposed to a year from now,” she said wistfully, trying to keep her voice steady even though there was no one around to judge her. “I gave him one of my copies of Hogwarts, A History, and he finished it in a single night –” 

The thunder cut her off with a loud clap and she started, glancing up toward the sky for a moment. As the lightening flashed, she caught sight of a familiar walk, a familiar head of blond hair. 

“Malfoy?” she asked. He looked like a ghost, pale and almost glowing in the hazy morning, his black cloak turned up at the collar to keep the rain at bay. Still, his hair was soaked, and she didn’t have to see him to know who he was visiting – Vincent Crabbe’s grave was here, too. Somehow, he heard her; she saw his shoulders go up at the sound of her voice. He turned halfway toward her, more of an acknowledgement than she expected. 

She raised her hand to wave – 

“Granger, watch out!” 

She didn’t have time to turn around – whatever, whoever Malfoy had seen lunged, sinking a knife into her side. The pain was white – brighter than any lightening she’d ever seen, and she screamed, the sound foreign to her own ears, and whoever it was wrapped an arm around her and held her fast, a gloved hand over her mouth – pulled the knife free just to sink it into her flesh again, a fresh wave of agonizing pain. 

Malfoy was drawing his wand, as if in slow motion, and before Hermione could say anything, before she could think, she had been shoved forward, onto Lupin’s gravestone. She heard more than felt her forehead slam into the marble, and saw no more. 

***

For a horrifying moment, Draco was sure that Hermione wouldn’t be breathing when he got to her. Whoever had attacked her was gone – he bolted into the street the moment Draco had pulled his wand, but that didn’t matter right now. Hermione was crumpled like a broken doll at the base of a headstone, and Draco didn’t have to believe in signs to know that was a bad omen. Instead, he held his fingers under her neck to make sure she was still breathing before he gently checked her neck to make sure it wasn’t broken. 

When he was satisfied, he lifted her into his arms, struggling more than he’d like to admit with her slick raincoat, and Disapparated. 

He landed on unsteady feet in the entry of his flat. He was suddenly struck with the silence; the rain outside had given every moment a steady sound that he did not have anymore; without it, he could clearly hear Hermione’s blood dripping onto the carpet. 

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, carrying the unconscious woman to his dining table. Very gently, he lowered her onto the surface, pulling her legs straight and making sure her neck wasn’t bent. 

He hated blood; he always had. Living through a war had not made dealing with blood any easier; if anything, it reminded him of moments he’d rather forget. But even moments after lowering her onto the table, Hermione’s blood was already pooling under her. Draco clenched his jaw and reached for her raincoat, peeling back the wet fabric. 

More blood seeped out of the raincoat, and Draco pressed his hands on the wounds, remembering that he had been told putting pressure on wounds would stop the bleeding. But these wounds were too deep, her skin too pale. It wasn’t enough, and every heartbeat that shuddered through her body pushed more blood out from the spaces between his fingers. 

He had to peel the shirt away from the two punctures in her abdomen. He struggled to remember the healing spells Snape had taught him in their private lessons. He couldn’t remember anything while he was looking at the smears of blood on her skin, the blood that was staining the tips of his fingers. He felt the room tilt and gripped the side of the table, hard enough that his fingers protested. He would not faint – he would not let her die. 

She groaned, a sound deep in her throat, and his eyes immediately jumped to her. She was turning her head, just slightly, enough to spur him into speaking. But what would she do when she heard his voice? 

“Granger,” he said softly, trying not to frighten her. “Granger, don’t move.” 

She didn’t seem to hear him, but it didn’t matter; whatever consciousness she was trying to achieve slipped away from her, and she went still again. 

He breathed a sigh of relief and pulled his wand, trying to ignore the sticky blood that now coated his hand. “Vulnera Sanentur,” he said, his hands hovering over the wounds. He had to repeat the incantation several times, like a song, but soon, the deep gashes were knitting themselves closed before his eyes, the blood slowing to almost nothing. It wasn’t until the blood stopped that he finally lowered his hands, clenching them against their incessant shaking. 

He wasn’t sure if it was fear or exhaustion, but he didn’t have time for either. Instead, he readied his potion set in the kitchen and set a pot of tea on. 

It didn’t take him long to brew up a Blood Replenishing Potion, and even less time to brew the Wideye Potion. He bottled them both and poured his tea, his eyes on Hermione as she stayed motionless on the table. 

He was suddenly reminded of Voldemort’s body, meticulously recovered and laid out on a table. Death Eaters stayed at his side for days, until the body started to smell, waiting for him to come back to life. The shaking in his hands got worse for a moment, sloshing his tea so bad he had to set it down. 

He couldn’t leave Granger on that table. 

Very carefully, he scooped her into his arms again, unwilling to levitate her when he could accidentally hit her head, and carried her into his guest room. She was still damp, and her shirt was still soaked with blood, but it would have to do until she woke up. 

He figured he should call someone, tell them what happened to her, but he was fairly certain none of her friends would believe him. No, she’d have to make that call herself, when she woke up. 

If she woke up. 

***

Hermione woke like she had been doused with ice water. The moment before, she had been asleep, dreaming of something terrifying, and the next moment, she was upright and coughing, the icy burn of a potion in her throat. 

“Easy, Granger,” a familiar voice soothed, and though she knew the voice immediately, the tone was still foreign. She wanted to yell, she wanted to pull away, she wanted to run, but her limbs were all heavy, and her abdomen raw. 

“What – Malfoy –” she let her hand settle over her abdomen, where the pain was the worst. Even as she thought it, pain ricocheted through her head. “Oh, my head…” 

“Lie back,” he insisted. “You’re going to hurt yourself.” 

“Don’t tell me what to do, you little –”

“Granger, for the love of Merlin, you’re going to faint again, please just lie back and listen to me for once,” his usual tone was suddenly back, frosty and rude as ever. Ironically, it soothed her, and she leaned back into pillows that she suddenly realized were much too soft to be her own. 

“Where –”

“You’re in my flat, in the guest room,” Malfoy answered her question before she could finish it. “Would you like me to explain?” 

“Why the hell –” 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he sneered. “Now, if you don’t mind, could you try to eat this while I tell the story?” 

It was only then that Hermione noticed he was carrying a tray of toast, tea, and a glass of water. Momentarily, she felt guilty for being rude to him when he was obviously trying to care for her in some way…but why she needed caretaking was a nagging question he still had yet to answer. In the wake of her silence, Malfoy carefully placed the tray on her lap and moved out of her space, onto a lounge chair a short distance from the bed. 

“Do you remember going to the cemetery?” he asked first. 

Hermione, who was considering taking a bite of toast, paused. “The cemetery…” she trailed off. “I – I remember leaving my flat, walking into the cemetery…I remember seeing you.” 

“Delightful,” he replied sardonically. “Do you remember the man that attacked you?” 

She hesitated, pulling the piece of toast into smaller chunks instead of eating it. “I…I remember…that branch snapping behind me. I remember – I remember you saying my name, and…and screaming…”

“Alright, alright, don’t agitate yourself,” Malfoy insisted, leaning forward in the chair. “Would you like me to tell you what I saw?” 

Hermione nodded, finally nibbling on a piece of toast. 

“I heard you call my name,” Malfoy said, his eyes leaving her to focus on something else. “I didn’t want to turn around, but I did anyway. You raised your hand to wave, and I saw him.” 

“Him?” 

“A man, I’m assuming. He came out of nowhere, like he had an Invisibility Cloak, or maybe a Disillusionment Charm, I don’t know. But he had a knife, and he stabbed you once, here –” he pointed to the right side of his abdomen, just below the ribs, “and here –” he pointed just slightly higher up and closer to the center of her stomach. “And then he shoved you and ran. You hit your head on Lupin’s grave –”

“Today is the anniversary –” she was suddenly moving again, a surprise even to herself, moving the tray off her lap, pulling the blankets back. 

“Granger, stop.” Immediately, Malfoy was on his feet and holding out his hand for her to take. “You cannot just get up and start running.” 

The pain washed over her in a tidal wave, and she was barely on her feet before Malfoy was completely supporting her again, angling his other arm underneath her knees and gently setting her onto the bed again. 

“I gave you a Blood Replenishing Potion and a Wideye Potion, but your body still needs to recover on its own,” he said, a sharp edge to his voice. “You cannot Gryffindor your way through this yet.” 

“Gryffindor?” Hermione replied coolly. “Going back to Houses so quickly, aren’t we, Malfoy?” 

“It’s on your shirt, you obstinate woman,” he retorted. “Now drink your damn tea.” 

There wasn’t much she could say to that, so she pulled the tray toward her and picked up the tea cup. She took a tentative sip while she observed Malfoy, who had retreated back to his chair. His hair, usually meticulously styled, was messy and dirty. His hands were stained a familiar red she’d never forget. There was dirt on the knees of his pants, and a darkness to his eyes that she recognized. 

“Malfoy,” she said tentatively. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me, Granger,” Malfoy waved her off. “Just drink the tea.” 

She obliged him, making sure to maintain eye contact while she did it. “Can I ask a question?” 

“If you must.”

“Why didn’t you take me to St. Mungos?” she asked. “It’s not that I’m not grateful…it’s just –”

“Common sense would dictate I take you to a hospital, I get it,” Malfoy finished for her. “Well…a few years after the war ended, Blaise and I got jumped at The Leaky Cauldron. Beaten within an inch of our lives, we were, but Blaise was a little more messed up than I was, so I tried to take him to St. Mungos. The Healers there were pretty clear that they wouldn’t help…my kind.” 

“Your kind?” she repeated. 

“Yes, Granger, I see the irony, you don’t have to point it out,” Malfoy snapped. “The pureblood elitism comes back to bite us all, I suppose.” 

“I wasn’t going to say that, you prat,” she retorted. “I…I just thought Healers took an oath to help everyone.” 

“Just not Death Eaters,” Malfoy said dryly. “Either way, you were bleeding so much that I figured if I wasted the time getting to St. Mungos and they turned me away, you’d be…” he paused, and Hermione was worried he was overcome with some sort of emotion, “I thought if I wasted time, you’d be dead before I could help.” 

He looked, suddenly, like the child she knew at Hogwarts, sixteen years old and terrified of Voldemort’s threats, terrified of the consequences. 

“Malfoy,” she said quietly, and he clenched his jaw tight and looked up at her. “I’m not dead.” 

“You almost were,” he said. 

“But I’m not,” she insisted. “And that’s because of you.” 

For a moment, she was sure that he smiled; she saw what was almost a smirk lingering at the edge of his mouth. Just the hint of it transformed his face, and she let herself smile back before he cleared his throat and stood, brushing off his dirty pants. 

“I didn’t write to your husband yet,” he said, his eyes on the carpet. “I figured he’d try to hex me the moment he stepped through the door. Now that you’re awake, maybe you can persuade him into behaving. I can give you parchment and ink to write him; I should write Theo at the MLE to let him know what happened –”

“Malfoy,” Hermione interrupted. “Not that I don’t agree, but could I perhaps have a shower first?” 

“Granger, you can’t stand,” Malfoy pointed out. 

“A bath, then?” she asked. 

“Granger –”

“Just draw it for me, I can figure out the rest,” she insisted. 

He stared at her like he was going to contradict her again but thought better of it and stalked into the bathroom, an adjoining door, and soon, Hermione could hear the sound of running water. A few moments later, he was back, offering her his arm to help her out of bed. 

She figured that she would at least be able to walk to the bathroom by herself, but she underestimated how out of sorts the bump on her head made her feel, and the pain in her abdomen, previously a dull ache, flared every time she took a step. 

“Granger, you can’t do this,” Malfoy said as she whimpered. “Let…let me help you.” 

“Malfoy –”

“Do you want to be saved from a lunatic in a graveyard just to die in my bath?” Malfoy snapped, tightening his hold on her arm as she slipped. “Just let me help you.” 

She managed to unbutton her jeans by herself, but she had to have him pull them off her legs, especially where the blood had run onto the denim and made it stick to her skin. She wanted to be embarrassed; truthfully, she should be mortified at the idea of Malfoy helping her undress, but they worked in silence, and if she tried really hard, she could forget it was him. 

“Granger, can you try to lift your arms?” he asked cautiously. “I think I can pull this shirt off without jostling you that way.” 

“If Ron could see me now –”

“If you ever do anything to repay me for saving your life, let it be not telling Ron about this,” Malfoy said, but there was a laugh in his voice that made Hermione chuckle. He easily peeled the shirt off of her, leaving her sitting on the edge of the tub in nothing but her bra and knickers. 

“I think I can handle the rest,” Hermione said, feeling a blush taking over her face. Malfoy, if he noticed, didn’t say anything. 

“I trust your determination little, Granger,” Malfoy said. “I’m going to close my eyes, but I want you to keep hold of my arm at least.” 

“Malfoy –”

“Granger, everything in this bathroom could harm you if you hit your head on it, stop being stubborn,” he snapped, his eyes already closed. 

Slowly, Hermione took off her knickers, leaving them in the same pile as her jeans and shirt, covered in blood, dirty, and smelling like rain water. Her bra, on the other hand, had a problematic hook she couldn’t quite reach without causing herself incredible pain. She struggled with it for a few minutes, trying to turn her shoulders a particular way that would give her more reach, but it was hopeless. The rain had soaked into the padding, making the material stick to her skin. 

“Malfoy,” she said quietly. “I need your help.” 

“Do I need to keep my eyes –”

“Yes,” she exclaimed. “Keep your eyes closed.” 

“What do you need, Granger?” he asked flatly. 

“Unhook my bra,” she said it in a rush, so fast she was sure that it was unintelligible. But Malfoy heard her; his face flushed bright pink, an amusing color on his pale skin. He cleared his throat. 

“You’re sure you can’t do it?” he asked. 

“Positive.” 

He turned toward her, his eyes still closed, his chin angled upward, his arm still tight in her grip. “Okay, just…just don’t move, okay?” he asked. 

Before she could respond, his other arm was around her bare torso, his fingers very gently touching her skin, searching for the hook in question. She kept her eyes on his face, watching his eyes for any sign that he was peeking. But no, he kept his eyes shut tight even when the tips of his fingers brushed against her long hair, even when they found the hooks. Deftly, and with a skill Hermione didn’t want to think about, he unhooked the bra with two of his fingers. 

“There,” he said, his voice a little less steady than it usually was. 

“T-thank you,” she said, blushing again. “I’m…I’m going to step into the bath now,” she said, turning away from Malfoy’s face and toward the tub. Very gently, she stepped into the warm water and lowered herself in. It wasn’t until she was positive that her body was completely concealed in the bubbles that she told Malfoy he could open his eyes. 

“As you can see, I’ve been safely put in the bath,” she said. “You can go now.” 

He gave her a pinched sort of nod and practically fled into the other room.


	2. Chapter 2

Draco’s instinct on Ron Weasley proved accurate. Not half an hour after sending off Hermione’s letter, clamped in the beak of his eagle owl, there was a frantic pounding at his front door, and a muffled, “Should I break the door open?” 

“Relax, Weasley,” Draco called, opening the door with a flick of his wand to maintain his distance. “No need for property damage.” 

Ron was through the door in a moment, his hair disheveled, his eyes wide and wild. “What did you do to my wife, Malfoy?” he asked as Potter stuck his head around the door frame, bags underneath his eyes and a stooped slump to his shoulders. 

“I didn’t do anything to her,” Malfoy replied sternly, lowering his wand to the countertop sip his tea, his left hand still tight around the handle, the picture of calculated calm. “She’s in the guest room, resting, giving her statement to Detective Nott.”

“Her statement?” Ron repeated, spluttering, stepping further into the flat. 

“Someone tried to kill her, Weasley, she has to talk to the MLE,” Malfoy said dryly. “Do come in, Potter, my residence won’t harm you.” 

Harry stepped more completely into the flat, his eyes searching the corners in what Malfoy recognized as a trained defensive manner. He tried not to take it personally. It was the anniversary of several of his friends’ deaths; he was bound to be a little on edge. They all were. Still, there was something annoyingly familiar about having Ron Weasley pointing his wand at him for no good reason. Draco felt his childhood hackles rising, and pushed them back. There were more important things.

“Hermione?” Ron called, finally lowering his wand and moving toward the hallway to the right. 

“Last door on the left,” Malfoy supplied without looking up from the counter. “Potter? A cup of tea?” At Harry’s cautious look, Malfoy rolled his eyes. “It’s not poison.” 

After another moment of pensive silence, Harry shrugged an affirmative. Draco turned away from him to pour another cup, listening to Ron’s heavy footfalls as he went to find his wife. Wife. Hearing it in relation to Hermione Granger was still odd for him; she would always be that annoying girl from Hogwarts, the skilled dueler from the war, the softened but still intimidating scholar he’d known at university. Never a wife. 

He dropped a sugar cube into Potter’s tea and resolved to put it out of his mind. 

***

Hermione heard Ron approaching from down the hall, the cadence of his steps familiar. Theo, scribbling in his notebook, paused in his writing. “My husband,” she said.

“Of course,” Theo looked back down at his notes. “Now, Mrs. Granger-Weasley, Draco said –”

“Hermione?” Ron swung the door open like he expected a hostage situation, his wand raised. His eyes fell immediately to Theo, who surveyed his defensive stance and wand with raised eyebrows. 

“Ronald, I’m fine, please –”

He was by her side immediately, his eyes darting back to Theo suspiciously. “Are you alright?” he asked. “What happened?” 

“Mr. Weasley, if Hermione could just finish her statement –”

“Oh, sod off, Nott,” Ron snapped. “Your statement can wait.” 

“It can’t, actually,” Nott said, standing and straightening his dark blue MLE robes. “Two other war heroes have been attacked so far today, and we have reason to believe that more attacks are imminent. Hermione’s attack was not random.” 

“Two more?” Hermione repeated as Ron sank into the mattress beside her. “Who?” 

“Neville Longbottom and Hannah Abbott were attacked in Diagon Alley this morning,” Theo replied. 

Hermione reached for Ron’s clammy hand. He tensed for a moment before taking hers. “Are they alright?” she asked, trying to straighten up. 

“I thought I told you not to agitate her,” Draco’s voice was quiet and cold. “Granger.” 

Ron immediately moved to stand up. “That’s Granger-Weasley to –”

“She’s always going to be Granger to me,” Draco shrugged. “I brought you tea,” he directed to Hermione. “And I expect you to drink it this time.” 

“If we could get back to the statement –” Theo said, raising his eyebrows at Draco when he turned away from the side table, where he had deposited Hermione’s cup of tea. 

“Of course,” Draco replied “Weasley, please allow Detective Nott to do his job. Then I’m sure Granger would be happy to tell you the whole story.” 

He stood in the doorway for a moment, waiting for Ron’s confirmation. When he gave none, Draco let his eyes fall to Hermione, who nodded. 

“As I was saying –” Theo continued as Draco closed the door. 

***

Draco found Potter sitting at his dinner table when he returned to the main room of his flat, staring into the dregs of his tea. “Would you like me to top that off, Potter?” he asked. He jumped at the sound of Draco’s voice, his eyes dazed and lost. “Or perhaps you’d like something a little stronger.” He nodded his head toward a decanter of firewhiskey beside the two gray couches in the living room. 

“Is this Hermione’s blood?” Potter asked, pointing to the dark rust stain on the wood. Draco stared at it, trying not to remember the ordeal he’d had trying to remove the stain, his hands shaking and his jaw tight. He turned away from it and grabbed the decanter of firewhiskey and two glasses from the tray. “I’ll take that as a yes.” 

They sat in silence for a while, Draco drinking from his glass, Potter barely sipping. Finally, Potter spoke again. 

“Can I ask you a question and get a real answer?” he asked. “I mean, not a typical snide Malfoy answer, but a real one?” 

Draco shrugged. “Ask me and find out.” 

“Was it like being in the war again?” he asked softly, his voice so quiet and so tentative Draco could have pretended not to hear him. But his hand tensed around the glass, and he was forced to sigh. 

“It doesn’t feel like it ever ended,” Draco replied. “I’ve been waiting to snap out of it, to go back to normal, but I can’t.” 

“Is that why you didn’t take her to St. Mungo’s?” Potter asked. At Draco’s alarmed look, he continued, “A few years after the war, Hermione got sick. A reaction to the Cruciatus Curse, we think. Either way, she was having seizures and passing out. All of us just took her to Grimmauld Place and researched potions to help her.” He took a long swig of the firewhiskey, wincing sharply at the taste. 

“We didn’t even think about going to St. Mungo’s,” he continued, his voice a little raw. “The moment we saw something from the war come back, we were acting on instinct. It was almost a week before Molly came by and told us we were being ridiculous, and that we needed to go to the hospital.” 

He chuckled, as if the memory was funny now, but it wasn’t to Draco. To be spared responding, he took a larger drink of his firewhiskey and turned away to pour himself more. 

He didn’t need to be talking about this to anyone, much less to Potter. And he wouldn’t. 

***

“Draco said the assailant stabbed you twice –”

“That’s correct,” Hermione said. 

“With a Muggle blade?” Theo asked. 

“I can’t say for sure,” she admitted, “I didn’t see the blade, but I know it wasn’t a spell.” 

“And he pushed you…” Theo trailed off. 

“Onto Remus Lupin’s headstone,” she finished. 

Ron stiffened beside her. “Lupin’s grave? Hermione –”

“In a moment, Ronald –”

“And after that, you were knocked unconscious,” Theo continued as if Ron hadn’t spoken. 

“That’s right,” she agreed. “After that, you’d have to rely on Malfoy to tell you what happened.” 

“He said,” Theo flipped through his notes. “You were unconscious for close to three hours, that he used a charm that Severus Snape taught him in school to close your internal wounds, and he gave you a Blood Replenishing Potion and a Wideye –”

“A spell taught to him by Snape?” Ron interrupted. Theo stood, raising his eyebrows at the redheaded man. Ron considered him for a moment before he cleared his throat and continued. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” 

“Ronald, please –”

“All I need you to do is sign the statement,” Theo said, passing the parchment over to her. 

“Can – can you tell me – is Neville okay?” Hermione asked, scribbling her name and handing the paper back. “And Hannah?” 

Theo reclaimed the parchment, tapping it with his wand to seal it and notarize it. “Longbottom is in St. Mungo’s. It looks like he’s going to be okay. His wife was, unfortunately, the first casualty.” 

“Someone’s dead?” Malfoy’s voice was sharper than Hermione had heard it in years. He was standing in the doorway, a glass of alcohol in his hand, almost empty. His eyes were on Hermione. 

“Hannah Abbott,” Theo answered. “Hufflepuff. From our year.” 

“I remember her,” Malfoy said quietly. “I’m sorry,” he directed to Hermione, who wiped away a tear. “I know she was your friend.” 

She opened her mouth to respond, but Ron cut her off. “We have to go. We have to contact the Order, make sure they know about this threat. We have to make sure they’re okay.” 

“If I could make a suggestion –” Malfoy said. 

“You can’t,” Ron snapped, standing up. “This is all very suspect. You expect me to believe that you were just – what – in the right place at the right time to save Hermione’s life? And the only way you could save her was to bring her to your flat and not to a bloody hospital?” 

“Ronald –”

“Don’t try getting up, Granger,” Malfoy said. “Let him get it out of his system.” 

“We’re going to St. Mungo’s,” Ron insisted. “Come on, Hermione.” 

“Weasley, she can’t even stand yet,” Malfoy protested as Ron tried to help her up. “You’re going to hurt her.” 

“He’s right, Ron,” Hermione said, wincing as Ron’s arm snaked around her middle. 

“Why don’t you leave her here for tonight,” Malfoy said, “And go check on your family and friends. She’ll be safe here.” 

“Like bloody hell she’d be safe here,” Ron exclaimed. “I’m not leaving my wife with you.” 

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Nervous I’m going to steal your wife, Weasel?” he sneered. Theo, by the doorway, watching the exchange, snorted. 

“Malfoy,” Hermione admonished. He met her gaze for a moment before he sighed. 

“Take your wife wherever you want,” he said flatly. “Theo, if I could speak to you –”

There was no goodbye, no last look, no nothing. The door swung shut behind him quietly, and Ron turned to Hermione, residual rage flaring in his eyes. A moment later, there was a quiet knock at the door, and Harry stuck his head in. 

“Malfoy said we’re leaving – Hermione, what’s wrong?” 

Now that her audience was gone, her tears could flow freely. She told Harry, through sobs, what she’d learned about Neville and Hannah. But crying just made her abdomen hurt even more, and soon, her sobs were of sadness and pain, and she felt herself spiraling out of control. 

“We have to contact the Order,” Ron insisted as Harry took Hermione’s hand. 

“Send the Patronus and tell them to meet us at Grimmauld,” Harry said. “I’ll get Hermione there.” 

Ron glanced back at his wife, clutching tightly to Harry’s hand as she cried, before he nodded and left the room. He never stayed with Hermione when she got like this; he didn’t know how to help her through it, and she never held that against him. Harry was always there to help her ride it out, even if he didn’t know how to help; his presence was enough. This time, he just held her hand while she cried, her sobs mangled and strained. 

“Granger –” Malfoy was suddenly at the door again. 

“Malfoy, now isn’t the time –”

“Potter, just give me a moment, if you please,” Malfoy said, tilting his head toward the door. Harry turned back to Hermione, who gently released his hand and gave him a single nod. 

“I’ll be right outside the door,” he promised her from the doorway. 

The moment he was out of sight, Malfoy was by her side, holding out his hand. “Take it,” he said. She stared at him for a moment, eyes red and swollen, before she reached out and took it. “I get panic attacks all the time,” he said quietly, his voice somehow soothing when it was this soft. “If you feel like you need to cry, I want you to let it out.” He tapped the side table with his wand. “No one can hear you.” 

She wasn’t sure how long she cried, but she felt the sobs shudder through her like waves crashing on the shore, and let Malfoy’s steady pressure on her hand keep her above the current. All she could think about was the fear that she couldn’t shake now that she had almost lost her life, and the pain of knowing another person was dead because of something they thought they’d all left behind. 

“Breathe, Granger, nice and slowly, through your nose, and out through your mouth,” his voice was still that same reverent tone that made her forget the Malfoy she used to know, and she inhaled shakily, pulling air into her desperate lungs, and it was only then that she realized she had been breathing shallowly. He squeezed her hand and they exhaled together, the air rushing out of her like a deflating balloon. 

“There you go, Granger. Always maddeningly perfect, you are,” he said, guiding her through more deep breaths. “Now, can you open your eyes? Does the room still feel too small?” 

How did he know the room felt too small? Hermione didn’t trust her voice enough to ask, but she pulled her eyes open all the same, realizing as she did, that while she was crying, she had ended up with her head resting on Malfoy’s shoulder, halfway in his embrace. Immediately, she pulled away, but he didn’t look offended. 

“Careful, Granger, you’ll hurt yourself,” he admonished, his voice still soft. “I was afraid you were going to faint for a little while there.” 

Hermione stared at him, feeling the burn of too many shed tears in her eyes and the raw ache of her lungs in her chest. She didn’t know what to say. Sometime in the haze of panic, fear, and grief, she had forgotten who was comforting her. It was bizarre to see it was Malfoy. 

“I – I have to – I should go,” she whispered, so softly that Malfoy had to cant toward her to hear it. “The – the Order –”

“Of course,” he said, suddenly businesslike. He released her hand and stood. “I’ll get Potter.” 

“Malfoy,” she called as he reached the doorway. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me, Granger,” he said. “Just don’t die.”


	3. Chapter 3

Six months went by too quickly for Hermione’s liking, and before she knew it, it was November. On good days, she could forget about the attack completely – she could lose herself in her work, in conversations with Ginny and Luna, in a book. But other times it would sneak up on her, like a sudden chill, and she would be left paranoid and restless for hours. It was worse when it rained; the feeling of rain on her skin reminded her of the ripping agony of the knife in her skin, of the ache in her head, and she found the rain to be oppressive, almost predatory now. 

It didn’t help that no one was ever apprehended for her attack. After three months with no leads, Theo had to admit that the case would probably go unsolved. A fanatic that fled the country, he said. Hermione didn’t believe it. 

Sunset painted the sky a dark orange as she slipped into the restaurant two blocks from the Ministry that she liked to visit when she had a long day. It was an expensive little place with spindly, delicate looking chairs and waiters that knew their patrons by name, but it had gnocchi pesto dish that she loved and soft, cheesy garlic bread that tasted like comfort. 

“Mrs. Granger-Weasley,” the hostess said with a smile. “Would you like me to tell the chef to prepare your favorite and box it up to go?” 

Hermione smiled, feeling already bolstered at the idea of her dinner. She opened her mouth to respond, and caught sight of a familiar silhouette, sitting alone. “Yes, Mary, and could you bring it to Mr. Malfoy’s table when it’s ready? I’m going to go have a chat with an old friend.” 

“Of course, ma’am.”

He didn’t see her approach until she was already pulling out the chair in front of him. “Not interrupting anything, am I, Malfoy?” she asked. He had a folder open in front of him, a quill perched in his slim fingers. At the sound of her voice, he snapped the folder closed, his usually unflappable gaze a tad too surprised to be innocent. 

“Granger,” he said, his voice neither warm nor cold. “To what do I owe this…pleasure?” 

“I haven’t seen you since…” she trailed off. His jaw tightened for just a moment, and his hand over the folder looked suddenly awkward.

“I remember,” he replied. “How have you been?” 

“Well, I have some lovely scars,” she said, trying to smile, but not really succeeding. “I feel like I never got to really thank you –”

“I told you I didn’t need you to thank me, Granger,” Malfoy said with a shrug. “Just –”

“Don’t die,” she finished. “I remember.” 

“Of course you do,” he said with a hint of a smile. He glanced into the dimly lit restaurant. “You waiting for Weasley?” 

“Oh, no,” she waved him off. “Just picking up dinner. I wanted to say hello, but you seem busy, so perhaps I shouldn’t bother you –”

“Actually, Granger,” he looked, for a moment, nervous, like he was second-guessing every word that tumbled out of his mouth. “If you’re not busy right now, perhaps you’d like to take a look at this,” he held up the folder, his eyes on hers, searching for any sort of reaction. 

“Oh?” she said. “Is it something to do with Malfoy Enterprises? I heard you were moving into private security –”

“It’s a more…personal matter,” Malfoy said, sliding the folder over the table to her. “Please, sit down. But,” he placed his hand over it just as she sat and reached for the folder to open it. “You have to promise not to get angry.” 

“Angry?” she asked. “Why would I be angry?” 

He tilted his head at her, a hint of his old Malfoy sarcasm returning. “Granger, I know you better than you think.”

She narrowed her eyes at him but didn’t respond. After a moment, he released the folder and let her pull it to her. Slowly, she opened it, catching photos as they slid down into her lap. She stared at one of them for several seconds before she realized what it was. 

A photo of Hannah Abbott’s dead body, blood pooled around her, her eyes wide open and unseeing. She snapped the folder closed and lifted her gaze to Malfoy, who was waiting for her reaction. 

“Malfoy, you didn’t –”

“Oh Granger, you know I did –”

Immediately, she pushed the folder onto the table, pulling her hands back like the pages would burn her. “What…what are you –”

He raised his eyebrows at her. “Theo never found any leads.” 

“So you picked up the case yourself?!” 

“You promised you wouldn’t get angry –”

“Malfoy, the pictures in this file…” she slid the folder back to him. “Where did you get them?” 

He didn’t take the folder, but left it on the table. “I have my ways. Now, what I need to know is: do you want to help me catch the guy that attacked you?” 

She dropped her gaze from him to the folder, unopened on the table. Investigating was definitely breaking some Ministry rule, and surely putting herself in danger, but not investigating meant Hannah’s killer would continue to go free. She knew what was right…but her mind, calculated as it was, had already compiled a list of reasons why this was a terrible idea. 

The fact that she’d be working with her former worst enemy was right at the top.

“The MLE have put this case away already,” she said softly. “Right?” 

Malfoy, across from her, nodded sadly. “Theo said if they go three months without a lead, it gets put away so they can handle newer cases they can probably solve.” 

She sighed, her decision tentatively made. “We tell no one,” she said sternly. Malfoy, across from her, straightened up. “I could get fired for meddling in a department that’s not mine –”

“Deal,” Malfoy replied immediately. 

“If Ron knows I’m working with you, he’ll have a fit –”

“Well, you know how I feel about Weasley –”

She rolled her eyes. “I do, thanks.” 

He took a sip of the wine to his left. “Granger, I do want your help with this because I know if anyone can figure out who did this, it’s you. But if it means lying to your husband, to your friends, maybe you shouldn’t.” 

“Draco Malfoy, worried about my interpersonal relationships?” Hermione asked. “I guess men really do mature.” 

“Don’t get your hopes up, Granger,” Malfoy said as Mary swooped in to deposit a bag of food in front of Hermione. “I just don’t want Weasley in my flat ever again.” 

She smirked for a moment before she regarded the folder again. “Why don’t you make an appointment with my office tomorrow and we can look at this,” she nudged the folder. “I’ll make my decision then.” She grabbed the bag and stood, trying to decide if she should say anything else or if she should just go. 

She had just turned away when Malfoy’s voice caught her attention again. 

“Granger.” 

She turned back to him; he was sliding the folder out of sight. “Malfoy.” 

“Do you still dream about him?” 

Suddenly, he wasn’t the scared sixteen year old she’d seen in his eyes when he saved her in the graveyard, but a grown man, perceptive and aware of the hurt they’d both had to survive. She clenched her jaw so tight it ached and gave him a single nod. He gave her a sad half-smile. 

“Me too.” 

***

The night passed like molasses. Hermione returned home with her dinner, her mind spinning. Seeing Malfoy in itself wasn’t terribly out of the ordinary; she had seen him in passing a couple of times in the last six months, but this was the first time she had the chance to speak to him. She felt like they had been tethered together by an invisible force ever since that day in the graveyard, since he held her hand when she cried. But they never spoke of it; in fact, they never spoke at all. They both seemed to accept this new kinship that they didn’t acknowledge. 

She couldn’t say what possessed her to talk to him, but when she saw him, the urge had been so overwhelming that she was powerless to deny herself the opportunity. She ate in silence; Ron always worked late now. He took on extra shifts as an Auror every chance he got, staying late into the night and early in the mornings. He always said it was so he could make sure the wizarding world was safe, but Hermione suspected he just didn’t know what to do with her. 

The melancholy, the listlessness that she felt with Hannah’s passing, with Neville’s mourning, had been almost so terrible it tore them apart. 

She spent weeks in her bed, weighed down so heavily she couldn’t get up to eat, to shower, to do anything. No one had ever seen her like that, especially not Ron. 

“Hermione, did you go to work today?” he asked her a week after the attack, when he came home to her in the same position, curled up on the couch, staring at the white wall. 

“They gave me time off,” she mumbled. 

“How much time?” he asked. 

She shrugged, the movement alone exhausting her. He tried to talk to her for a while, but when he realized she wasn’t going to respond, he left her on the couch, deciding that letting her set her own pace would work best. 

His patience didn’t last long. 

“You’ve been through so much worse than this,” he told her one day, grabbing her arm. “Remember Bellatrix?” He forced her arm into her line of vision, the scar still shining bright white. “You survived.” 

“It was supposed to be over,” she had sobbed, pulling her arm free. “We were supposed to be safe.” 

“We’re never going to be safe, Hermione,” he exploded. “The sooner you realize that, the sooner I can have my wife back.” 

“She’s not coming back,” she had mumbled, but he was already out the door, no doubt to Floo Harry so he could come calm her down. He hadn’t brought up that fight since it happened, but every now and then he would look at her when he thought she couldn’t see, like he thought she would break. 

Sometimes, when it rained, and she returned to her hazy existence on the couch, too heavy with melancholy to move, he would watch her for a long time, staring at her like he didn’t recognize her anymore. 

And perhaps he didn’t. 

It threatened to rain in the middle of the night; the thunder shook Hermione from her deep slumber and when the first flash of lightening lit the sheer curtains by the bed, she immediately fled to the living room, where there were no windows and curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket so tight it felt almost oppressive. But no rain could get in that way. No thunder could either. 

She woke sore and tired, and went to work in exhausted anticipation for Malfoy’s meeting. The sooner she got to the bottom of this, the sooner she could be herself again. It was almost two in the afternoon when Hermione finally heard the words she’d been waiting for. 

“Mr. Malfoy to see you, Mrs. Granger-Weasley,” her assistant’s voice was a welcome distraction from the pile of paperwork in front of her. Hermione gratefully pushed away the roll of parchment she’d been reading and looked up. 

“Send him in,” she replied. 

She knew she looked awful, but she was relieved to see that Malfoy looked the same; his pale skin was particularly sallow, his eyes red. His tie was knotted just a little to the left, the collar just a tad askew. It was the most out of sorts she’d ever seen him, save for the day he saved her life. 

“Granger,” he said as a greeting. 

“You know, one day you’re going to have to call me Granger-Weasley,” she admonished lightly, removing more parchment from her desk so he’d have room for his folder. 

“I am never calling you that,” he remarked, taking the seat across from her and depositing the folder onto the now clear surface. “So you might as well give that up.” 

She wasn’t sure what to say to that, so instead of responding, she reached for the folder and flipped it open, trying to prepare herself to see Hannah’s face again. But instead, there was nothing but witness statements and Malfoy’s own notes. 

“I took those photos out,” Malfoy said when she didn’t speak. “They’re in an envelope in the back so you don’t have to look at them.” 

Her eyes jumped up to his, touched, and he shrugged, looking down at his lap. “Try not to look so surprised, Granger, people aren’t always miserable prats for their whole lives.” 

“Who knew?” she asked, trying to be flippant. She caught his gaze for just a moment and thought there might have been a hint of a smile, but it was quickly hidden by longer pieces of his hair, free of its usual gel. 

“If you take a look at the witness statements,” he said, clearing his throat, “you’ll see that the attacker always came at his victims from behind, which could indicate that he was worried about being recognized, even with his Invisibility Cloak or Disillusionment Charm. But, Longbottom said that his boots clanged on the ground.” 

“His boots clanged?” Hermione repeated slowly, tasting the word in her mouth, and she flipped through the statement to find the description in question. “I don’t remember clanging.” 

“But we were on dirt,” Malfoy reminded her. “You wouldn’t have heard him. But look below that.” 

“What am I looking for?” she asked. 

He reached over her hand and guided her fingers down. “Two lines below.” 

“Healers could not close the stab wounds with the usual charms. They were forced to close the skin with Muggle stitches,” Hermione read aloud. She paused, furrowing her brow. “But…you said you closed my wounds –”

“With a charm that Snape taught me,” Malfoy finished. “When we were in sixth year, and I was –”

“I remember –” she interrupted. 

“Right,” he said, looking momentarily self-conscious before plowing forward, “During that time, Snape had me coming into his office once a week for private lessons. He taught me a bunch of custom spells he designed himself, including Sectumsempra, which,” he indicated his chest, covered by his robes, “well, Potter taught it to me a little more in depth than I would have liked –”

“I remember that, too,” Hermione said, trying to suppress her shiver at the memory. 

“Of course you do,” he said. “Well, the spell that I used on you was the one that Snape taught me as a counter-spell to Sectumsempra.” 

Hermione, who had lowered her eyes to the statement again, perked up. “So you mean to tell me that…” 

“That the spell Snape taught me was the only one that could close the wounds made by that knife,” Malfoy finished. “Which means someone knew Snape and his spells well enough to make the wounds almost impossible to close, unless by a man already deceased.” 

“Which means –”

“The killer is a former Death Eater, yes, Granger, I’ve gotten that far,” Malfoy said, leaning back in his chair. “Unfortunately, that’s where I get stuck.” 

She flipped to the first page. “Then let’s figure it out. Together,” she said, reading from the beginning.


End file.
